Lost in the Dark
by Nami Amagawa
Summary: "I hoped you would remember." Pitch said, and something curled around Jamie's ankle. He went completely still, a whimper rising in his throat as whatever it was slid up his leg. "Broken little boy, lost in the dark with a shattered torch. The Guardians won't come for you; they can barely see you. But you needn't worry. I won't let you finish growing up." Blackbelief (Pitch/Jamie)
1. 1: Dark Portents

_Hello and thank you for reading. I just want to get a quick author's note out of the way before we start. _

_This is a re-post of chapters from Ao3. I'm putting it here, because there is like...one blackbelief fic on this site? What? How? Smallest ship ever? Anyway, "Lost in the Dark" is angst heavy M/M with a fair amount of **dark imagery, violence, and explicit language**. I'm leaving Jamie's age up to you guys, but he is still in school, so a warning about that, too. No M stuff yet, but it's probably coming in ch 6 or 7. If any of that doesn't float your boat, please hit the back button and read something else. _

_Also, let me know in reviews if you think I should edit out the sex in this posting. (It's technically not allowed, but I know people post it.)_

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**  
Dark Portents

Jamie's head hit the wall and the world swam in a haze of distorted light and color. It didn't feel like a concussion—not yet—but it was a near thing. He could barely focus on the three taller boys. A fist twisted in his second-hand jacket, holding him pinned to the outer wall of the gym. The stitching had torn and fluffs of down floated in the air. His mother would be so angry. He'd have to find a way to patch it, or—

"I told you to stay away, freak." The words were barely audible as they echoed in the space between Jamie's ears. "You've got no business with my girl."

"Just f-friends…" Jamie choked, his eyes blinking as he tried to bring his attacker into focus.

"Don't give me that shit, you little prick. I warned you." The words were followed with a sharp jab to the stomach and Jamie coughed, rendered breathless as he tried to recoil. "You remember? Pretty sure I said I'd pound you into the pavement if I caught you talking to her again. And I keep my promises."

Jamie's mouth curled in a reckless smile, his eyes finally focusing on his attacker. "Funny how Pippa seems to think she's your chemistry tutor."

The second punch caught him low in the gut, forcing acid up his throat. Jamie swallowed and gasped, his breath whistling in the cold air.

"You think I'm joking?" Mike's fist pulled away from his abdomen, leaving a throbbing pain in its wake, deep and low, almost cold. "You want fucking meatloaf for a face?"

Jamie felt two hands grip his jacket and toss him sideways. His landed hard, skidding several inches on the asphalt. Before he could move, a brand-name trainer connected with his ribcage and he heard something crack. Not again. Jamie curled in on himself, wondering if he was going to die, and if not, how he was going to hide the blood from his mother. Again. She'd know something was wrong if his clothes kept disappearing. It wasn't like he had much left to choose from. Eventually, she'd know, and what could she do about it…? Mike Shepherd was a star athlete. His father owned half the business in town, not to mention the police chief. They didn't have a prayer. Mrs. Bennett would go to the school. The school would talk to Mike. Mike's fists would talk to Jamie. That's how things worked. If they were lucky, his mother would get a check from Mr. Shepherd—hush money to keep the incident off school records. And that wouldn't be so bad, except Pippa would know.

That was the real problem. He wasn't really interested in dating Pippa, not that he'd have a chance if he was. His childhood friend might not be prom queen material, but she was smart and popular in her own way—tall, slim, and classically feminine with shoulder length hair and shy eyes that seemed to draw assholes like flies to honey. She had a lot of friends. Mostly people who didn't know Jamie existed. Even so, she talked to him, smiled at him, acknowledged him now and then. That was enough. It had to be. But he would rather bleed out on this patch of blacktop than watch her eyes darken with pity and guilt. He didn't want to see her look at him like that: like a victim, or another charity case.

Another kick. Mike was talking, swearing mostly, but Jamie couldn't hear. He was swimming in the back of his mind, an impassive third party watching the white blur connect with his abdomen. Fingers twisted in his hair, pulling his head off the ground as hot breath hissed in his ear—insults, threats, he couldn't tell. Still, Jamie felt a bizarre sense of calm detachment.

Eyes closed, he felt his mind drift, landing firmly at the edge of his subconscious. He was standing in his old school playground. Cold fingers curled around his as Jamie watched his friends step forward, one by one. Cupcake was ten, lip quivering as she held her father's hand, refusing to wave goodbye as he closed her in the airport taxi. Monty was hugging him tightly at sixth grade graduation, cursing his parents for sending him to private school. Caleb and Claude sat apart from him at orientation, talking hoops with a couple kids from East City, and promising to play after school. They waved, motioning for him to follow, and he swallowed, looking up at the figure beside him. The frozen boy stared down at him, blue eyes soft with understanding and near familial affection. With a conciliatory half-smile, he made an encouraging jerk of his chin at the retreating boys. The cold fingers went slack, ready to let go. Jamie panicked. He shook his head.

No. Not yet. Not ever.

Taking Jack's arm in both hands, Jamie held on tight, ignoring the pull forward. He watched the twins frown slightly and wave goodbye, fading into a crowd of smiling faces. Pippa still stood next to him, her timid little smile almost as bittersweet as Jack's. Her hair lengthened as she grew taller, prettier, the fragile lines of childhood softening with subtle curves. Pippa still looked slightly younger than Jack when she leaned down, offering her hand. Jamie hesitated a moment and took it, if only to keep here from leaving, but as the seconds ticked by she started pulling him forward, straining against his grip. Other girls appeared behind her, giggling and cooing as they added their strength to the task. Jamie felt panic rise again and tried to pull away, but Pippa held on. She sat next to him on the bus, talked to him, introduced him to her friends. She wouldn't let him go.

He took a step forward. Another. And another. But no matter how far he moved, Jack stayed, rooted to the spot, constant and unyielding. The Guardian's acquiescent smile wavered, but his icy fingers remained slack in Jamie's grip. Jack wouldn't push him away, but he wouldn't hold on, either.

Jamie didn't want to go, but Pippa was tugging, pulling, and he was stretched between them, his fingers shaking and strained. People began to crowd around them. Empty faces laughed and pulled at Pippa's shoulders. Jamie's fingers slid and Pippa reached out to hold his wrist. Jamie's heart jumped and he turned, because Jack wasn't fighting. The smile was still there, but it was softer around the edges, his eyes sad and resigned. He could see the end coming.

A distant pain stabbed his stomach, wrenching his fingers from Jack's hand. His insides churned with bitter anger as the playground lurched and swam out of focus. He was on the blacktop, ears ringing as he watched a blurry trainer arch back for a fresh kick.

"Hey, Mike? Man…he doesn't look so good. Don't you think—"

The voice cut abruptly with a muffled _whump. _Cold powder fell on Jamie's cheeks. He blinked and smiled through the pain, a line of warmth dripping from the corner of his mouth. Ice crept under his fingertips, crawling across the blacktop until he was lying on a thick sheet of blissful cold.

_Finally_.

"Who the fuck threw that?!" Mike spun around as a second snowball nailed him in the back of the head. Caught unawares by the ice, he swore as his ass hit the pavement. "Fuck! I don't care who you are. You're dead!"

"Mike, we should go…Someone might've told the—SHIT!"

Another, larger snowball hit the taller of the two lackeys. Mike dragged himself up, eyes scanning the open space between the gym and the school building.

"Fuck this, man. I'm not dealing with this poltergeist shit." The shorter guy—Kevin? Calvin?

A metal door shrieked and Jamie heard shoes scrape on the ice as one or more of the thugs darted into a back stairwell. Mike swore and followed, slipping across the ground as he followed his friends.

"You're dead, Bennett. This isn't over." The door closed with a rusty screech, and Jamie was alone.

"Jack…?" Jamie shivered and pushed himself off the ice. "Jack, come out. They're gone."

No one answered. A chill wind slid through his jacket and raced up his back. Jamie stood, clutching his stomach and trying not to slip on the ice. He frowned, brows furrowed. "Jack? Where are you?"

A chime rang across the schoolyard, signaling the end of extracurricular time. Well, that answered one question. He'd definitely missed the bus. Jamie swept a thumb over his chin, and examined the fluid he'd felt earlier. Blood. His heart sank. Damn it all to hell. Mike hadn't hit him in the face, so it must be something internal, and that meant hospital bills. He sank back to his knees and took a deep breath, wincing as he tried to think.

Where was his backpack? He vaguely remembered someone pulling it off his shoulders and tossing it…somewhere. Mike had caught him right after the bell, so it had to be near the physics lab. It was close, but if he went back now, he was pretty much guaranteed to meet a teacher, and they would call his mother. Or he'd meet Mike and they'd have to scrape him off the hallway floor. Jamie coughed. More blood on his palm.

And where the hell was Jack? With all the ice and snowballs, it had to be him. "Jack! Jack Frost!" Jamie looked up at the empty sky, his mouth set in a stubborn line. A chill ran down his neck and he shivered. "Come on, please! I need you!"

Silence, cold and unyielding. Jamie's head spun, his stomach lurched. Coppery acid stung his throat. It was obvious. Jack would never leave him like this—not ever.

Mike fucking Shepherd. He wanted to scream. The damage was so much more than physical. Jack had warned him so many times, given him time to deal with growing up, but the wound still felt like someone had cut, or rather kicked, a jagged hole straight through his sternum. It was worse, he thought, because he would remember. He would always remember, but that's all it was: a memory. The Guardians of Childhood took an oath to protect the world's children and Jamie's childhood was officially over. Well, this was just the perfect icing on a perfect fucking day. Jamie tried to laugh, but his breath hitched and it sounded more like a sob.

"I can't see you." Tears stung his eyes and he swallowed, tilting his face back to feel the snow on his skin. "Jack…I can't see you."

* * *

The ER was bright, sterile, and completely utilitarian—not that he'd expect or demand anything better. He could live without the grainy TV, but he wished he'd just kept his head down and let Mike live his stupid fantasy. If he had, he wouldn't be wasting his mother's money on an overpriced cot and cheap curtains…and he might still have Jack.

He'd waited on the frozen pavement for almost an hour, but in the end, a janitor found him on the way to dump some trash. Jamie felt pretty much at home with that trash right about now. Mike's talent for violence had left him with three cracked ribs, a pulmonary contusion, internal hemorrhaging, and a ruptured spleen. If the school hadn't called an ambulance, he'd probably be dead. Part of him still thought things would be better that way.

Ms. Bennett was screaming out in the hallway, and he could sort of follow the chain of phone calls—first his principal, then the police, then Mr. Shepherd, who was apparently suggesting she talk to his lawyer. They'd be getting that money, then. Good. He got to walk away breathing, and Mike got to pretend he wasn't an overbearing dick. Brilliant.

A cough ripped through Jamie's throat, piercing his lungs with stabbing pain. Wincing, he reached for the call button. And after what seemed like an extraordinarily long time, a nurse arrived, mercifully providing a fresh dose of pain meds.

When he slept, he found himself walking through unfamiliar dreams. They were dark, muted—missing the comforting warmth of dream sand. With the added confusion of heavy medication, it was like being locked in someone else's head. He was sitting on top of the playground slide, watching the world burn. Jack was standing motionless in the flames, his figure wavering, distorting—_melting_. Jamie pulled his knees to his chest and hid his face. Smoke stung his lungs and he coughed, shoulders shaking.

A crack split the air and Jamie looked up in time to see the blackened play-set collapse in a cloud of sparks. His breath quickened, his lungs straining against rusty knives. He was burning from the inside out and his friends were gone; the Guardians were gone. He was trapped, neither man nor boy, afraid to go forward, but unable to go back. He had nothing left to hold onto.

The dream shifted, the crackling fire smothered as darkness flooded every corner of his mind. He groped blindly, searching for the slide's metal handle. The tips of his fingers moved through the air, but the rail wasn't there. The slide wasn't there. He was sitting on smooth, featureless stone. Something rustled—wings, maybe cloth—then a clatter of hooves echoed in the dark void. Jamie rose to his knees, turning to face the sound, his eyes wide against the impenetrable blackness.

"Jamie Bennett…"

The sound of his name tickled the back of his neck, each syllable soft as brushed velvet. He turned, heart smashing against his lungs.

"I'm glad to see you." The rich baritone slithered to his ear, whispering in a refined British lilt that held traces of something older, wilder—dragons and druids, the tricks and trials of Sophie's fairy-tales. "I've been waiting such a long time…but I'm nothing, if not patient."

Fingertips brushed his spine, tracing the line of his vertebra in a slow, deliberate caress. Jamie flinched, retreating back along the smooth floor, but the fingers followed, threading lightly through his hair in a manner that recalled the creeping legs of a spider.

"Stop it!" Jamie shouted, reaching up to smack the intruder away, but something snatched his wrist and pulled him off the ground. He screamed, waving wildly with his free hand, until that, too, was caught and held. Pain stabbed with every shallow breath as his chest rose and fell. He couldn't feel the floor, but he could feel the shadows moving around him, thick and almost solid—_alive_. As he breathed, he could taste pine and cedar and the unmistakable musk of decaying undergrowth. It was the dark space between trees, the unknown hiding in impenetrable wilderness. _Pitch Black._ The name sprung to mind without a moment's thought, though he hadn't heard it since that night, so long ago.

"Yes." Pitch answered the boy's unspoken thought. "I hoped you would remember." Something curled around Jamie's ankle and he went completely still, a whimper rising in his throat as whatever it was slid up his leg. "Broken little boy, lost in the dark with a shattered torch. The Guardians won't come for you; they can barely see you. But you needn't worry. I won't let you finish growing up."

"I'm not afraid of you." Jamie said and wished his voice wouldn't waver like that. They were in his dream, his head. If he could just pinch himself…maybe knock himself out? He struggled again, all thoughts of venom and snakebites forgotten.

"That hardly matters." Pitch laughed. "The rules have changed—you've changed. Can't you see, Jamie?"

A host of eerie yellow eyes lit the dark and, finally, he saw them: shadows, monsters, curling and twisting around each other so it was impossible to tell if they were solid, liquid, or gas. Slitted glowing orbs melted along their distorted bodies, stretching and shifting with every curve. He couldn't scream. He couldn't move. One of the monsters was still crawling inside his pajamas and suddenly that really didn't matter, because Pitch was there, pressing forward until they were scarcely a hairsbreadth apart.

"I own you."

The nightmare king gave a terrifying smile and set his palm over the boy's heart. Jamie felt a jolt of horror as something crawled through him, sliding right through his skin and wriggling behind his sternum. He choked on a scream, back arching as he tried to pull away. Pitch laughed, cold, colorless eyes drinking in every flicker of fear. A weight settled somewhere between Jamie's lungs, throbbing and pulsing like a second heartbeat. His body went slack. The pain in his lungs dulled and faded. Finally, Pitch pulled away, brushing his fingers down Jamie's arm as he disappeared back into the shadows. The creatures followed, leaving Jamie alone in the fading darkness.


	2. 2: Transient Narcolepsy

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**CHAPTER TWO**  
Transient Narcolepsy

"Ms. Bennett, I have to change your son's iv bag."

"Oh…Sure, I'm sorry." Something shifted to Jamie's left and a delicate hand squeezed his fingers—his mother. He anchored his mind to the familiar touch and fought the lingering cobwebs. The darkness scuttled away on a swarm of spindly legs and then, finally, his eyes opened. She was there, leaning forward over the hospital bed as the nurse edged past en route to the silver drip stand. Her head was turned, angled so he could see her chin and neck. A curtain of albicant brown spilled over her shoulder, shielding him from the harsh overhead lights. Jamie felt his heart swell with childish relief. Safe. He was safe.

"M…mom…" His fingers twitched in her grasp as he breathed the word in a rattling sigh.

"Oh, thank God!" Ms. Bennett breathed and moved closer, palm on his cheek, her eyes searching his face for signs of discomfort. "Are you okay, sweetie? How do you feel?"

"Mmokay" He said through a mouthful of cotton. "Can I…water?"

"Just a minute." The nurse finished replacing the bag of fluids and produced a cup of water from somewhere in the corner. "Nice and slow, now—Ms. Bennett, we'll have to move him in about ten minutes. The ER's filled to capacity, but we have a bed on the fifth floor, if that's okay."

"Thanks, Pat." His mother sighed and gave the woman a brisk smile. "That'll be fine."

The nurse disappeared, and Ms. Bennett brought a straw to her son's lips, helping him drink. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. The nurses tried to wake you, but you were completely out of it and they couldn't wait. Dr. Lieberwitz got your CT scan back and we had to make some fast decisions about surgery."

"Wh-what…?" The straw fell from his lips.

"It's over, hon." She gave his hand a squeeze, rubbing a thumb over the back of his palm. "With any luck, you'll be home by Thursday."

"Thursday….? We-we can't afford—"

"Don't even start." Ms. Bennett forced him back onto the bed with a stern, but gentle push. "This isn't an argument, Jamie. Your father's sister is giving me a short term loan until I can wring that lawyer dry. You will stay here until they discharge you, is that clear?"

"We'd be better off borrowing from the devil."

"I don't like it either." She gave a long sigh, and for a moment the cheerful mask sagged. She was tired, so extraordinarily tired, every sleepless hour etched in the fragile lines of her face. Jamie bit the inside of his mouth and frowned at his hospital bracelet. He could never say anything right. "Beatrice is family. She just wants to help."

Aunt Beatrice was generally kind to Jamie and Sophie, but she treated their mother like dirt and her holiday cards were always lofty and overbearingly religious. This deal pretty much guaranteed an unwanted visit, during which they would be forced to sit through an onslaught of passive aggressive comments and poorly concealed insults. Jamie hated the woman, but it wasn't like they had much family to choose from. His mother was an only child and his only living grandparents were on a fixed income in Boca Raton.

"Is there anything you need from home? I have to pick up Sophie, so I might as well swing by the house. Pajamas and socks…a change of clothes?"

He nodded. "Can I have the DS?"

"If you go to bed when the nurses ask."

"I will…do you think Soph—"

There was an exaggerated knock, and a blonde woman stepped inside the curtain. Dr. Eliza Lieberwitz. They'd met briefly during admission, but he hadn't seen her since—at least, not while he was conscious. She was young for a doctor, maybe in her early-thirties, but the assortment of colorful clips in her hair made her look much younger. "Hey, Jamie, Pat told me you were finally awake." She smiled and tapped a bright orange pen on her clipboard. "Mind if we talk before they drown you in soap operas and Seinfeld reruns?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Well, I better get out of the way." His mother gave him a peck on the cheek and reached for her purse. "There's nothing new, is there Dr. Lieberwitz?"

"Nope. Just a recap."

"Thanks—I'll be back soon, sweetie. Text me if you think of anything else you need." And she was gone.

The female doctor sat in the now vacant chair and set the clipboard on her lap. "So, yeah. Emergency splenectomy—about…three hours ago, now. You were out pretty long, but I think we went a little overboard with the anesthesia." Dr. Lieberwitz propped the clipboard up on her lap and flipped to a specific page. "Do you have any questions about the surgery? I don't want to drown you in medical jargon, but if you're curious, I'll answer."

"Uh…I guess my spleen is gone?"

She nodded. "It's not the end of the world, but it will weaken your immune system—make it harder for your body to fight infection."

"But I can go home on Thursday?"

"That depends. The puncture in your lung should heal naturally, but we can't send you home until we're sure. We'll also be watching for internal bleeding and other possible complications. Thursday is the earliest I'd feel comfortable discharging you, but that's only if there are no new emergencies." She flipped to a new page. "If your lung collapses you'll probably need another surgery, and that could keep you here over the weekend."

"Great…"

"It could be a lot worse, Jamie." She gave him a smile that looked slightly more natural, almost kind. "You're lucky to be alive."

"I know…" His eyes moved automatically to the spot where his mother had disappeared earlier.

Dr. Lieberwitz checked her watch and sighed. "Well, we don't have much time left. How's your pain medication? Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah. I'm okay." There was a dull ache in his stomach and his bandages were a bit tight, but he felt pretty good considering he'd been cut open and sewn back together. It was hard to focus his thoughts, and his whole body felt like a limp noodle, but that was probably just the medication. Blinking up at the overhead lights, he felt his eyes water. "Headache's pretty bad…but other than that, I'll live."

"That's probably the anesthesia. Give it a few hours, and we'll see."

She continued, outlining the various tests and treatments he'd need during rehabilitation, until the nurses finally came with the wheel chair.

* * *

His new room was exactly what he'd pictured, complete with shared bathroom, food tray, cabinet space, and an overhead TV. Paradise. As much as he wanted to examine all seven channels, his body felt heavy and his eyelids refused to stay open. Sleep. Sleep was safe. Sleep made everything go away. The lights flipped off, the soft beep of his monitor faded, and he was gone.

That was pretty much how he spent his first day in the hospital. Stabbing pain would fish him out of the darkness just in time for his nurse to administer a new dose. Sometimes there were people in the room. His mother, Sophie, and inevitably Aunt Beatrice. Sophie talked the most, and it was easy to listen to her, because there was very little substance to the conversation. She told him about the sparkly new blockbuster they were missing—how dare he be hospitalized on opening weekend—and showed him pictures of some celebrity she was stalking on twitter. Aunt Beatrice, well, prayed. Over him. It was actually kind of creepy. The impassioned murmuring made his insides squirm and his hair stand on end. Then of course there was the arguing—out in the hallway, but that didn't matter. He could still hear.

"You're not considering sending him back to that Godless cesspit?"

"It's not my decision, Beatrice." His mother's voice was flat and he could tell it was a familiar topic of conversation. "If Jamie wants to change schools, fine, but it's up to him."

"Sandra, you're his mother. It's your job to—"

"She's trying to send you to St. Matthews." Sophie said over the argument. His sister was sitting sideways in the bedside chair with a weathered library book in her lap. "That Christian school with the ugly plaid uniforms."

Jamie made a face and pushed the button to lift his bed into a sitting position. "No thanks. Maybe Whitmore. At least then I'd see Monty."

"You have to test into Whitmore."

"I know…" His lip curled and he eyed the tray of food sitting on the table beside Sophie. "Give me that stupid Jello cup."

She pulled the lid back and passed it to him. "I'm pretty sure that's supposed to be dessert."

The spoon danced in her fingers, waving in a fluid motion until he reached out to snatch it from her.

"Bite me." He stabbed the gelatin and lifted a spoonful to his mouth. It tasted like lime cough syrup, but it was still more appetizing than the rest of the food.

"Pippa came to visit while you were out."

Jamie coughed mid-swallow and almost choked. "Wh-what?"

"Pippa." Sophie turned her attention back to the book, but her eyes remained stationary. "Here. To see you. Apparently she had a huge fight with the guy who attacked you. Smacked him across the face in the middle of the hallway."

"She didn't…" His heart made a weak quiver and shrunk back against his lungs. He wasn't sure what was worse, Pippa putting herself in danger, or the humiliation of knowing the whole school must have seen. "Maybe I should transfer…"

"And leave her with a stalker?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "You know, he tried to follow her home today."

"Fuck…" Jamie swallowed a bite of gelatin and sank down into his sheets, his worst fears confirmed.

"It's not really your fault, you know."

"Maybe, but I made things worse." He scraped up the last of the gelatin and set the empty container aside. "And we'll probably get some kind of gag order from Mike's lawyers."

"Are you kidding?" Sophie laughed. "Mom's out for blood. That asshole almost killed you. We're getting a lawyer."

"What? No!" Jamie shook his head, brows lowered. "I—I can't even begin to list the reasons why that is a terrible idea."

"That boy is terrible." The door opened and Mrs. Bennett stepped inside the room, followed closely by their aunt. "He deserves to be punished."

"At least we agree on that." Beatrice gave an airy snort and opened her voluminous handbag. She was wearing an honest to god mink stole (Was fur even legal anymore?) over an off-white skirt suit. Cashmere gloves pulled a stack of new paperbacks from the depths of her massive bag. "I'm glad you're alright, dear. I've been praying for you, but it works so much better if you speak with the Lord yourself." She smiled and set the books on the table. "I know it's hard with your mother working Sundays, but I brought some inspirational reading to help. Joel Osteen always makes me feel better."

Jamie found himself locked in a moment of complete silence. He blinked awkwardly up at his aunt, while Sophie tried to stifle a fit of giggles with her vampire novel. Ms. Bennett just eyed the books with a resigned sigh. Unlike Beatrice, she was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, which meant she must have called out for the day. Jamie felt a new rush of guilt clawing at his gut—or was that the pain medication wearing off? He couldn't even tell anymore. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and pushed the call button. The overhead lights bled through his eyelids, piercing right through his brain. Pain. Skull splitting, throat wrenching, agonizing pain. He gasped and his damaged lung gave an agitated throb.

"Are you okay, sweetie…?" Ms. Bennett stepped past Sophie to put a hand to his forehead. "I don't think it's time for your next dose yet."

"H-Head hurts." He gasped through the pain. "I just…I need to sleep."

Ms. Bennett shot a worried look at her sister-in-law. "Honey, I don't think that's a good idea. Can you wait for the nurse?"

He tried to answer, but he was gone before he could open his mouth. The darkness welcomed him, cushioning his aching body with soft raven down. There were arms around his shoulders, pulling him deeper into the abyss as lyrical whispers tickled his ear. He couldn't understand the words, but somehow they urged him to stay—stay forever.

* * *

His eyes snapped open. For a moment nothing seemed to change, then he blinked and turned his head, focusing on the tiny array of lights blinking at his bedside. His ears caught the rhythmic pattern of a heart monitor and an occasional whistle from his roommate's nose. Faint light bordered the thick window screen, illuminating the room with a paler shade of dark. It was night. He was alone. The chair still sat next to his bed, but his mother's purse was gone. Jamie sucked in a deep breath and exhaled, using the remote to lift his bed. He narrowed his eyes, squinting at the bright green numbers on hospital clock. 1:03 AM. Perfect.

Jamie considered going back to sleep, but his whole body felt stiff and his muscles itched to be stretched. He also had to pee. Picking at his iv, he tried to gauge the distance to the bathroom. It wasn't far—six steps at the most. He'd made the trip earlier with one of the nurses. Common sense told him to push the call button, but he hesitated. It was comfortable in the dark. His mind was clear. Even his pain had dulled to a manageable throb. If he called a nurse, it would come back.

Jamie yanked his covers back and grabbed the bedrail. Carefully guiding his feet to the floor, he pushed himself up and stood, breathing deeply. Okay…that wasn't so bad. His bandages pinched and his stomach felt a little worse, but he was standing. He was okay. Now, all he had to do was walk. Heart pounding with reckless adrenaline, he took his hand off the rail and slid a foot forward—another—and another. He couldn't do anything about the iv, so he pulled the stand along with him. By the fourth step his legs stopped shaking, by the sixth, he was barely limping. He pushed the bathroom door open and stepped inside without bothering to look for a switch.

Even with his bladder sated, he felt restless and edgy. His arm itched, his bandages itched, and he really wanted to climb out the window and leave this stupid room. Jamie paced the length of his bed, his iv stand squeaking after every third step.

1 – 2 – 3 – _squeak_ – 1 – 2 – 3 – _squeak_ – 1 – 2 – 3 – _squeak_.

He was on his twentieth squeak when the duffel bag caught his attention. It looked familiar, like the bag his mother took to her volleyball games. Absently scratching his bandages, Jamie poked through the contents: books, clothes, socks, underwear—aha! Jamie pulled the family's shared 3DS from beneath a very old stuffed rabbit.

By the time the nurses found him he was sprawled out on his stomach, mashing buttons as grey light filtered through the window blinds.

* * *

"I'm not sure what to say, Jamie." Dr. Lieberwitz said, clipping a suture and extracting it from the ugly scab. "Are you related to James Howlett?"

"Who?" Jamie winced and tried not to look down. It was still early morning, but he'd caused quite a stir at the nurse's station. Apparently you're not supposed to lie on your stomach after surgery. The nurses fussed over him and checked his wounds, lecturing him about blood flow and pressure and god knows what else. They removed his bandages, only to find his stitches encased in an aging scab. That at least explained the itching, but apparently it was also a medical impossibility. Bickering in confusion, they paged his doctor and arranged for a sonogram. The internal damage was almost gone. His ribs had healed, his bruises faded. The only thing left was the scab and the stitches.

"Never mind." She sighed and discarded the thread. "The light sensitivity, though…you said you hit your head?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't that bad."

"Well, we better play it safe. I'll refer you to a specialist."

"I just want to go home…" Jamie said with an exasperated frown. The hospital lights were about eight-thousand times worse than the sixty-watt bulbs in his bedroom. He was surviving with a pair of dilatation spectacles, but the tinted plastic couldn't shut out the light completely and he already felt the subtle pangs of an impending migraine.

"I know." Dr. Lieberwitz gave him a quick smile and pulled the last stitch from the wound. She set her tweezers on the rolling tray and began to clean the incision. "I'm discharging you this afternoon."

"Really!?"

"Yes, really." Wet cotton pressed against his abdomen and the smell of chemicals pinched his nose. "Personally, I'd love to study your recovery, but where I see a medical anomaly, most people see miracles, and I don't do miracles. Accelerated cell regeneration, sure. I could deal with mutant superpowers, but I draw the line at divine intervention."

"Could we maybe keep that part private…?" There would be no stopping Aunt Beatrice if she heard the word 'miracle.' Plus, it might affect the lawsuit, and he knew they desperately needed that money with or without his aunt's support.

"I have to tell your mother, but I'll make sure to do so privately."

"Thanks." Jamie sighed and looked down at the shiny new square of gauze.

"No problem." Dr. Lieberwitz balled up the bloody cotton and the clipped sutures in a paper towel and tossed them in a container marked 'biohazard.' The gloves followed suit, and she brushed the lingering chalk from her palms, celebrating a job well done. "Your mom will get the discharge papers when she arrives." A pad of paper emerged from the pocket of her lab coat. "Migraine medication. Take two as needed, but no more than eight per day. You only get two refills, so don't overdo it. Avoid bright lights and keep those sunglasses on until you can see a specialist. Well, it doesn't have to be _those_, obviously. That would be ridiculous, but make sure you use dark lenses with UV protection."

Jamie nodded.

* * *

Ms. Bennett finished her morning shift and came in around lunch. Jamie ate his cardboard sandwich and tasteless soup without complaint. The apple sauce actually tasted kind of good. By two, the paperwork was done, his things were packed, and he was ready to go. His mother dragged him into the longest hug he could remember. She was babbling unintelligibly into his shoulder, but with all the references to God and Jesus, he was pretty sure it was a prayer. That reminded him of Aunt Beatrice, which in turn reminded him of St. Matthews. He hadn't touched the books on his bedside table. He had half a mind to leave them there, but they were obviously brand new and he could probably return them for cash, even without a receipt. He thought about school on the way home, thought about seeing Pippa—seeing Mike.

St. Matthew's was a viable option. It would simplify so many things, but it would also make him a coward, a loser. No. Sophie was right. At the very least, he couldn't leave Pippa. Mind made up, he started compiling his argument, ignoring the radio commentary on the early snowfall and the possible effects of global warming.

"_Experts agree that these extremes are a sign of atmospheric—_"

Jamie switched the radio off and addressed the side mirror. "I want to go back to school."

Silence followed the blunt statement, broken by the _click-clack_ of the blinker as they switched lanes and turned onto a side road. "I thought you might." Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Do you have a good reason?"

"Yes." There was a single white line on the passenger-side door, but he couldn't decide if it was a scratch or a reflection.

"Can you tell me, please?"

Jamie chewed his lip and considered, still staring at the scratch—definitely a scratch. "I'm worried…about Pippa" The words felt dry and insufficient, but he said them anyway. "Mike's stalking her and I need make sure she stays safe."

"Sweetie, I understand why you want to help, but you're at risk, too. Don't you think the police—"

"They can't always help." Especially since the sheriff was busy choking on Mr. Shepard's dick. Mike's gang smoked in the park pretty much every day after school. Sometimes it was just cigarettes, sometimes it was weed. The police knew. The park employees knew. The school knew. The whole fucking town knew, but nobody seemed to be able to stop them. Oh, and then there were the dismissed charges: assault (sexual and physical), battery, robbery, arson, trespassing. Mike Shepard, ladies and gentlemen, star player. "Pippa's the only friend I have. I can't leave her." _And I don't want to run away_. He left the last bit unsaid and slumped down in his chair, crossing his arms and worrying the Band-Aid taped over his left wrist.

A few beats of silence, and the car lurched to a stop at an intersection. Red light. "She's not your only friend, Jamie. I know it's none of my business, but I'm worried—and not just about Michael Shepherd. You haven't made any new friends since graduation, and you act like your old friends are on mars or something. They're still there, sweetie. Growing up is tough, sure. Interest change, people change, but that doesn't make you strangers."

"I know." Jamie answered, tracing the edge of the bandage with his fingernail. It was true, of course. He saw Monty almost every Saturday, but it wasn't the same. There was too much distance, too much space. The twins ate lunch in the same cafeteria every day, but they might as well be on opposite sides of the moon. Jamie couldn't bridge that distance. He didn't know how. Childhood was over—had been over for longer than he cared to admit—and as much as he missed that raw trust, the loyalty that seemed to outweigh even family, there was nothing to be gained by wallowing in his loss.

It was time to move on, and he would. He would. Right after he made sure Pippa was safe.


	3. 3: Enter Night

.

**CHAPTER THREE**  
Enter Night

"Nice shades, Bennett." A sharp push sent Jamie crashing into his locker.

One of Mike's guys, obviously—probably from the soccer team, but it was hard to keep track. He still half expected to find himself locked inside the tiny metal prison, but things don't work the way they do on TV. Sure, he'd probably fit in an empty locker, but television didn't factor in the disorganized and ever growing mountain of shit. Textbooks, calculator, notebooks, lunchbox, stray loose-leaf, and old homework assignments came crashing down around Jamie's head as the impact shook the entire row. A few students swore and gave the jock dirty looks, but they picked up their things without further comment. Nobody wanted to be on Mike's shit-list. "What are you, a fucking vampire?"

"Fuck off, McKellar!" Jamie winced as the glasses were snatched off his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed for them.

The taller boy laughed, holding the plastic frames just out of reach. Then the smile died, and Jamie found his back crushed up against the neighboring locker, his feet hovering two inches off the ground. "Seriously, are you fucking stupid? Go home, Bennett. Now. I'm not even joking—if he catches you, he's going to kill you, and I don't want that on my—"

"Put him down, Calvin." The familiar voice cut through the bully's warning, and his face changed to a sneer. Pippa was standing in the center of the hallway, her expression far from the easy smile Jamie remembered. Her eyes were cold, her voice sharp with anger. "And give his glasses back or I _will_ report you. You're on your last strike, McKellar. Do you really want to be expelled over a pair of sunglasses?"

McKellar swore and dropped Jamie, then the glasses, to the ground. "I'm serious. Go home."

Jamie heard retreating footsteps as he fumbled for the frames. Finally sliding them back into place, he leaned back against the lockers, regulating his breathing and steeling himself against crashing waves of pain. The curtains were falling. Pippa was talking, and he really ought to listen, but the darkness was so close and he needed—needed… Jamie pulled out a plastic container and popped two pills, swallowing them dry. If he passed out, the school would send him home. He would lose. Pippa would worry. Sucking in deep calming breaths, Jamie felt cool fingers on his cheek, then his forehead.

"Jamie, you look awful." Pippa brushed his bangs back and frowned. "Are you sure it's okay for you to be in school…?'

"I'm fine." He pushed her hand away, and there it was, exactly what he didn't want to see: delicate brows raised over wide, sympathetic eyes, the smallest crease drawn between them. Pity_._ Jamie slumped down to clean up his mess, his heart sinking right through the floor. He didn't want pity. Was that really too much to ask? "Stop making yourself a target."

"I'm making myself a target!?" She dropped down next to him and began pulling papers and books into a neat pile. "Why are you even here? McKellar's right, Shepherd is going to kill you!"

"At least he's not watching my house at night."

"Excuse me!?" Pippa slammed his English textbook onto the pile. "So, what, you came back here to protect me!? Are you crazy?"

"I'm not just going to sit at home when you're in danger!"

"Jamie, I appreciate the sentiment, I really do." She paused to organize her thoughts, dull the knives that flew with her words. "But I'm okay. I have friends to watch my back, and you…you're always alone, and—"

"I get it." Jamie took the pile and crammed it back in his locker. "I'm a loser with no friends."

"That's not what I—"

"Go back to your friends, Pippa." He said with unnecessary venom. "I can deal with this."

"Jamie!" The locker door slammed and he turned away from her, a vein throbbing somewhere behind his eyes. He needed to get away. Not to science. Fuck science. Fuck everything. He had a pass to see the nurse, but again, she would probably make him go home. His feet moved on autopilot, carrying him to the darkest place he could think of: the auditorium.

The doors were locked, as always, but the chain usually had just enough slack to squeeze through. Faint strands of LEDs glowed along the aisles, presumably a safety precaution, but the rest of the auditorium was dark. Jamie crept along the carpeted walkway toward the stage and slipped under the velvet curtains. The expanse of wood flooring was littered with music stands, chairs, and seasonal gym equipment. There wasn't much danger of running into anyone; the gap was too small for most of the school delinquents and the administrators rarely checked for the same reason. It was the perfect place to hide. Jamie sprawled out on a stack of mats and let his consciousness fade.

Sleep erased the pain and soothed his bruising shoulders. That was how it worked. He was sure. It had been two days since the hospital. The first morning, he'd found a pink scar in place of the scab, the second, a white line. Sleep was the solution to an equation Jamie didn't understand. It was clear, concise, and useless as the answers in the back of his math book. Out of context, an answer wasn't an answer, it was just another question. Jamie remembered hands in his hair, on his skin, and sometimes he caught a flash of light, a whisper in the darkness, calling him deeper.

_Come home, little prince…you belong to the dark._

Home…Where was home? The darkness melted around him, softening into viscous tar. It pulled him under, covering his skin and filling his lungs until he was drowning in an ocean of pitch. No, not drowning, he was breathing. Stygian liquid poured into his chest, staining his organs and creeping into his blood. He tasted storm clouds, fresh rain, and the breath of a dying star. It was everything and nothing and it was all there, buzzing in his veins as he sank ever lower, drifting in the endless night.

Jamie woke to the distant echo of a bell. He was still in on the auditorium stage, sprawled out on the mats with his eyes staring up at the mesh of wires and lighting fixtures. The emergency exit cast a haze over the stage, illuminating the clutter with an alien glow. He sat up. The light seemed brighter. Jamie hadn't even noticed the rack of costumes before, and now he could count every stitch on Cinderella's gown.

The tips of his fingers were still buzzing, prickling with pins and needles. How long had he been asleep? Jamie checked his watch. 12:30. Lunch, good. He could handle lunch.

* * *

The rest of the day passed without incident. Pippa sat with him in the cafeteria and, inevitably, her friends followed. He managed a few comments about the math homework, and asked about a test he'd missed, but the rest of their conversation seemed to revolve around inside jokes, English literature, and Pippa's new puppy, so he just let the words slide over him, eating his chicken patty in silence.

After lunch, he took more pills and headed back to his locker to grab his books for fifth period. Then, staring down at the combination lock, he realized they were in his backpack—the backpack that had never been found. Jamie sighed. He didn't have a spare notebook, but he could probably dig out a few sheets of loose-leaf.

The locker door swung open and several stray papers slid out, including an unfamiliar envelope. Jamie's heart gave a sluggish thump. He reached down, stuffing the papers away and lifting the strange package. It definitely hadn't been there earlier, and it looked small enough to squeeze through the locker vent. It wasn't heavy. It wasn't addressed. It was just an envelope, an envelope containing a single folded piece of paper, which, when opened, revealed typed words and several printed photographs.

Jamie's mind went numb, rage humming through his nerves. The pictures showed his house, his yard, his mother in her car, Sophie getting on the morning bus—each time stamped and marked with carefully positioned cross-hairs. The letter was short and simple.

**5PM RIVERSIDE PARK **  
**COME ALONE**

He didn't go to his afternoon classes and, for the first time in his life, he actually left school grounds. He didn't know what to do. Every time he ran down the list of options, it got shorter and shorter. Go to the police—yeah right. Tell the school administrators—they'd just call the police. Tell his mother—maybe, but then what? She'd probably believe him, but that would just buy them time. He couldn't even prove Mike sent the threat. They only had one real option: skip town.

Jamie walked down Main Street, past the arcade and the cluster of antique shops. Leave Burgess? The thought sent tendrils of fear twisting through his stomach. He couldn't leave. Watching his friends move on was bad enough, but this…this would pull his whole life up by the roots, cut him off from even the ghosts of his past. Just walking on this street made him remember sailing through the air with Jack—

His thoughts stalled, twisting sharply in his chest. Jack...There it was. Leaving Burgess meant leaving Jack. It meant giving up, starting over. Jamie knew his time with the Guardian was over, but he was still hoping for a miracle. Now, Mike was taking even that.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Jamie imagined standing in a strange school in a strange town, surrounded by strange people telling inside jokes and swapping stories about people he'd never met. No Jack. No Pippa. Not even Monty. Had Cupcake felt this way before moving to California? Jamie stuffed his hands in the pockets of his mother's old ski jacket and resumed cycling through his options.

In the end, he bummed a quarter from the Laundromat and called his mom's cell. She was at work, of course, so he left a message. It was cryptic and vague, but he squeezed in an "I love you" and hoped for the best. She might not even hear it until her shift was over, and by then he might be dead. It was stupid and insane, but there wasn't any other option. He wouldn't leave. He wouldn't. Even if meant begging for his life.

* * *

Jamie sat on the park slide, flipping through a discarded magazine. The bells of 's Chapel rang, and he checked his watch again. Finally. It was only five, but the park grounds were already cloaked in shadow. He felt better with the coming dark. It was nice, watching the sun fall, feeling the pressure lift from his eyes. Pockets of orange light reflected on the remaining snow and, for some reason, he thought of fire. It was a strange image, some fragment of a dream disguised as memory. Jamie removed his glasses and tucked them in his pocket, leaning on the handrail as he swung his legs off the side.

A few minutes passed and then he saw them: three—no, four boys at the south entrance. He knew them—McKellar, Paul White from the wrestling team, and Bernie Lewis, a dropout who sold weed out by the arcade. Jocks, delinquents, it didn't really matter. In a way, Mike collected people: the strong, the wealthy, the well connected. They were his knights, his pawns, pieces in a high stakes game against society. Jamie watched them pass the row of hedges and convene in front of the swings, their voices a low murmur in the late autumn air. He wondered if Mike's father was proud of him, if he played a different version of the same game, or maybe he was just trying to shove his dirt under the carpet.

McKellar saw him first. His stocky shoulders tensed, and he motioned to the others. They turned as one, eyes fixed on their target.

Shepherd actually looked surprised, and Jamie wondered if they had expected him to show at all. But then, Jamie was probably the smallest boy in his year, so he kind of radiated weak and defenseless. Any sane person would have skipped town. He should have skipped town, but it was too late now.

Dropping the magazine, he pulled himself up and sighed. There were only so many ways this could go, and most of them involved fatal injuries. He knew that. He'd been dreading it for hours, but now, with his attackers huddling in the flickering glare of the streetlamps, he felt almost calm. Electricity buzzed in the air around him, lifting pressure from his limbs. Jamie felt practically weightless. If he had to die, he was going to do it right. Locking eyes with the boys, he stepped onto the handrail and let himself drop, landing below with surprising ease.

McKellar stared. "What the fuck happened to your eyes, Bennett?"

"Who knows." Jamie shrugged and took a step forward, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Maybe it has something to do with that wall I ran into."

McKellar frowned, brows furrowed in confusion. "That's not what I—" He choked, swallowing his words at a disparaging look from Shepherd, and began fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket, eyes downcast. It was an interesting power play. Jamie noted the slight bend to McKellar's back, the nervous way he scuffed his toe through the wood-chips. He was afraid. Deathly afraid, and it showed. Jamie felt his own heart skip a pace, reacting almost instinctively.

"You're a fucking sack of piss, Bennett." Mike set his feet wide on the grass and squared his shoulders. "I don't know what you said to Pippa, but you ruined fucking everything and I'm done with your shit." Silver flashed in his hand, and the other boys stiffened, eyes on the blade. "Hold him."

The flunkies hesitated, then closed around Jamie. Jamie swore under his breath. There was no use running, no use fighting. Every one of them was twice his size, and if he escaped...He glanced at the drug dealer, a thrill of fear gripping his heart. If Bernie was here, that meant his buddies were involved—people with no work or school, people with guns and limited inhibitions about shooting little girls. Jamie clenched his teeth as strong hands held his arms behind his back. Mike stepped forward and pressed the knife's tip to the smaller boy's throat.

Something writhed in Jamie's chest, twisting, and thrashing as blind panic stalled his heart. He wanted to run. He wanted to beg. Anything—anything to make this go away. He'd drop out of school, convince his mother to give up on the lawsuit. Fuck, he'd never talk to Pippa again. _Anything_. Jamie swallowed a scream and looked up at Mike, reading murder in his eyes. The knife was pressing closer. Something hot rolled down his neck and he knew he was bleeding. Mike's mouth curled in a manic leer and Jamie knew, knew he was dead. He opened his mouth, a plea for mercy on his lips, but the words changed mid-route and came out smooth and calm. "What are you going to do, Mike, slit my throat?"

Mike faltered for a moment as their eyes locked. Jamie stared up at him, his gaze cold and hard. Somewhere, his mind was screaming, but it was faint, muted. The calm stretched inside him, sopping up the fear and swelling along his muscles, edging down his nerves and filling him head to toe, soothing the frightened child with a monster's lullaby. Jamie's eyes flashed gold. The streetlamps flickered and popped, their light fading in a rain of glass.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" McKellar jumped back, making the sign of the cross over his heart. Jamie turned his head, forgetting the knife and the danger. He smiled, reaching up to grab Mike with his free hand. The blade clipped him as it moved and his blood ran ink black. Mike said something, a threat, an insult, but even there he could sense it rising, hiding under the bravado. Fear—thick and rich, buzzing in the air, and singing through his blood.

_Yes. _

He squeezed down, felt bone crack. The knife dropped. Mike yelled in pain. McKellar was running, streaking down the road like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Paul and Bernie hesitated, their eyes fixed on Mike, Paul still holding Jamie's left arm.

"Kill him! Fucking KILL HIM!" Shepherd shouted and kicked the knife toward them. Bernie scooped it up and took aim at Jamie's back. The smaller boy twisted, turning with surprising force. Paul tried to restrain him and stumbled as Bernie struck. Everything stopped. Paul blinked several times, staring down at the knife in his side.

For a moment it simply wasn't real. It was a joke, a trick knife, but then the blood seeped through the boy's down jacket and the little voice in Jamie's head screamed in horror. Bernie stepped back, eyes wide, the color draining from his face.

"Shit—Oh, shit, man! I didn't—"

A fist hit Jamie's face and he lost his grip on Shepherd's arm.

"This is your fault, Bennett." Mike said, and there was something wild, almost manic in his eyes. "Give me the knife, Paul."

Bernie's mouth dropped and, for a moment, all the spikes and sharp edges fell away. He was just a kid, Jamie realized, no more than seventeen or eighteen. "Mike, come on, man…We gotta get this dude to a hospital."

"Go." Jamie rubbed his jaw and turned to face the frightened dealer. "Get him out of here."

"Give me the knife!" Mike repeated in a growl. "I'm not leaving until this little shit-stain is dead."

Bernie's eyes shifted between them, taking in Jamie's cold stare, mike's angry snarl, and Paul's ashen face. Slowly, cautiously, he edged over to Paul and pulled the knife from the wound. The injured boy sagged against Bernie's shoulder, his free hand pressed against his wound, which was bleeding profusely. The knife hit the ground as the dealer put his arm around his friend's waist. He took a step back, eyes still flicking nervously between them. "Mike. I can't. This—It's too much, man…I'm out."

Bernie backed away and Jamie stepped forward, blocking the retreating pair from view. As he moved, the shadows seemed to follow, creeping forward like trees stretching toward the sun. Mike's eyes flicked to the knife. It was lying point down in a clump of snow next to the slide. Jamie was closer. He backed up, watching the nervous light in Mike's eyes as he nudged the handle with his boot, and kicked it toward the other boy's feet. "Go ahead, Mike. Kill me."

Mike stared at his trainers, a sharp crease etched between his brows. A muscle twitched along his jaw as he struggled to adjust the game plan, trying to predict Jamie's next move. There had to be a Catch-22. Why give him the knife? Unless the weaker boy was legitimately insane, it made no sense. Maybe he thought he had a better weapon—a gun? His eyes narrowed, examining the boy's striped ski-jacket for signs of extra weight or volume.

Jamie smiled, watching the thoughts flickering across his opponent's face. The shadows grew thicker, wider, collecting at his feet in a near-solid mass. There were creatures in those shadows, monsters writhing against the surface, trying to claw their way out. Black clouds covered the sky, blotting out the moon and stars until there was nothing but the gold of Jamie's eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" Jamie stepped forward, walking towards the other boy with his hands out in a gesture of invitation. "I'm right here."

"Psycho-ass mother fucker." Mike growled, scooping up the knife and holding it out in his uninjured arm. Then, his eyes caught the mass of shadows. He froze, eyes wide with dawning terror. "What the fuck is that—_What the fuck is that!?_" He scrambled back, retreating as Jamie continued forward at a steady pace. "Stay the fuck away from me! I mean it!" His voice cracked and he jumped as something clinked against his back.

Just the swings. He breathed, a split second of relief flashing through his eyes.

In that second, the devil-eyed boy moved, drawing within arm's reach as though by magic, still wearing that calm, terrifying smile. Mike choked on a cry and swung wildly, cutting a sharp line across the boy's chest. Black blood sprayed from the wound, spattering Mike's face and clothes as the line softened, blossoming outward in a sick imitation of an inkblot card. Jamie reached up, undeterred, grabbing the taller boy and dragging him down to eye level. Mike tried another swing. He blocked it, forcing the knife down with impossible strength. Sable drops fell from Jamie's cut, hissing as they cut holes in the dark. Mike stood, transfixed by his former victim's placid expression. Jamie pried the knife, from his fingers, breathing in the other boy's fear like an airborne narcotic.

"Good." The knife fell, passing right through the ground and spinning into the shadows. "Now, let's play a little game."

Mike Shepherd stared down at the void, watching his blade vanish. Eyes, hundreds and thousands of glowing orbs, watching him like a predator in the dead of night. His face was ashen, his mouth open in a partial scream. Piss ran down the leg of his baggy pants in a dark stain. Fear. So much fear.

Jamie paused in exaggerated deliberation. "Say…hide-and-seek. If I don't find you by morning, I'll convince my mother to drop her lawsuit and leave town forever. If find you, I'll make sure you never bother Pippa or my family again. You have till one-hundred."

"Ready…" He pushed Mike back, laughing as he fell into the swing. "Set…" Mike scrambled to his feet, sprinting toward the street in blind panic. "Go."

Shadows bursting from the ground, erupting in a mass of spidery wraiths and spectral horses. They whirled about the smiling figure and streaked through the sky, following the smell of fear.

The game was rigged. There was no escape. Jamie's lips parted and he began the long count to one-hundred.

* * *

The frightened boy ran, racing toward the safety of the street lamps. Fuck Bennett. Fuck those scared-ass bitches for leaving him behind. Fuck-Fuck-Fuck! He kept up a steady line of cursing as he hung a right down Main, passing lighted displays and dodging piles of lingering snow. Would he be safe inside? Around people? He looked down at his watch and swore yet again. It was pushing nine. Every god-damn shop in town closed at nine.

He could try for home. After all, he had a pretty good head start, but something told him he wouldn't make it. He remembered the way Bennett seemed to jump ten paces in the blink of an eye. Hell to the fucking no. How long did he have left?

A jolt of panic punched the air from his chest. He wasn't counting._ He wasn't fucking counting._ Yellow eyes flashed in the back of his mind and tears stung the corners of his eyes. Anywhere! Anywhere safe! Bright and…he stopped, paused, then redirected his trajectory. Her house was close. If she wouldn't let him in, he'd break a window. Maybe her parents would phone the cops, but Bennett couldn't find him in juvenile detention, right?

Mike picked up speed, glad he'd kept at his training. He was four blocks away. Two blocks. Just around the corner—there. He vaulted the picket fence and sprinted toward the back door.

_Pippa, for the love of God—Please! Please! Please! Please!_

* * *

A nightmare found him, landing on Pippa's back stoop and cutting him off, just in time. Jamie frowned, twisting his hands in the wispy mane of his mount as he watched Shepherd turn and run back toward the fence. He didn't want the girl involved. That would be…complicated. The smaller voice might be behaving now, but that would change if she was in danger. Compromises. It was all about compromises. He could have taken all four boys. Well, maybe not McKellar—flighty bastard. But he let the others go, kept his other half happy. Eventually, they'd merge, forming a single consciousness, but that would take time and careful negotiation. Right now, he needed control.

The shadows cornered Shepherd behind the old malt shop, a relic of the 1950's that had been boarded up for as long as he could remember. It was a good choice, dark, and relatively secluded. The neighboring dry cleaners was closed for the night, as were the pizzeria and the pawn shop. He vaguely remembered an old man living over the pizzeria, but the risk was minimal. Jamie brought his nightmare down at the mouth of the alley and slid off its back. Giving the equine shadow a light pat, he walked into the dark space, following the sound of a rattling door. His trainers scuffed the pavement. The rattling stopped. A low sob rent the air, and Jamie smiled.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." He trilled. Spindle-wraiths materialized from the shadows, swimming around Jamie's shoulders like a school of monstrous fish. He passed a rusted dumpster and saw the boy trembling against the far side, pressed into the corner. It was sad, really, or at least, the other voice thought so. He knocked twice on the dumpster, enjoying the way his prey jumped at the sound. "Game's up, Mike."

_No—Stop it! Stop! STOP!_

He wasn't going to stop. This piece of shit tried to kill both of them—tried to kill their family.

_It's not right! I'm not like this! I don't…I'm not…_

He was like this. At least, he was now. There was no going back and no opting out.

"Fuck! Oh fuck—get away from me! Get the fuck away!" Mike began screaming in a stream of unintelligible profanity. He tried to back away farther, but there was nowhere to go. The boy's eyes bulged with terror, his expensive clothing stained with sweat, blood, and god knows what else.

_Please…Please don't…_

He hushed the voice, wrapping it in dark blankets and putting it to bed. Jamie crouched down at the frightened boy's feet, resting an elbow on his knee and propping his chin on his palm. "You lost, Mike. Game Over."

"Please…I won't—I didn't mean it about your family." Mike was babbling through the panic, peppering his words with profanities. "I—I'll leave you alone. I'll leave Pippa alone."

"Shhh—I know you will." Jamie reached out and pressed cold fingers to Mike's clammy cheek. "Now, hold still."

The boy cringed, and shivered. All color left his eyes, blue bleeding to grey as fear consumed him, pulling his mind into catatonic silence and dying his soul a dark, midnight black. His face went slack, his mouth opened, and a wispy creature pushed itself out, bracing against the boy's cheeks with frail, spindly arms.

It fell, and floating nervously near the pavement, yellow eyes blinking as it gave a feeble, high-pitched moan. Jamie lifted it, holding the creature gingerly in his palms—a newborn fearling, and the last shadow of Mike Shepherd.


	4. 4: Exit Light

.

**CHAPTER FOUR**  
Enter Night

Mike Shepherd wasn't dead; that was the good news. The owner of the dry cleaner's found him, leaning on the wall with his eyes and mouth wide open. His heart was beating. He was breathing normally. But aside from those basic physical functions, he was completely unresponsive—brain-dead.

Overdose. That was the initial diagnosis. Mike had a reputation for habitual drug use, but the hospital couldn't figure out what, if anything, he'd taken. The toxicology contained trace amounts of methamphetamine, but it was nowhere near enough to cause permanent damage. Mr. Shepherd concluded there was no evidence to support that theory and took his son to an out-of-state neural facility, hoping for a more palatable diagnosis.

"Jamie?" His mother rapped lightly on the bedroom door. "It's past time for school, sweetie. Are you going today?"

Jamie pulled the covers over his head. The blinds were shut, the curtains pulled tight, but he could still see a chink of light surrounding the window, and it was driving him crazy.

_We should go home. _The dark voice spoke. _He's waiting. _

It was sitting somewhere in the back of Jamie's mind, giving him time to cope with what it had done.

_What we did_, it corrected with a yawn. _It's bright out. Let's go to sleep. _

A small blot of shadow passed across his bed, exploring the room and brushing against his possessions as though marking ownership. Jamie watched it, shivering with revulsion. The others had gone, disappearing into wisps of shadow, but the smallest spindle-wraith had followed him home, rubbing at his neck and orbiting his head like a tiny satellite. He wished it wouldn't. He wished it didn't exist at all.

"Jamie? Honey, are you okay?"

_Answer her. Tell her we're sick. _

Jamie made another halfhearted attempt to push the voice away. He'd tried. Imagined it trapped behind locked doors and brick walls, but nothing worked. Jamie curled up under the covers, squeezing his eyes shut.

There was a click and the door opened.

"Sweetie," Ms. Bennett sat on the side of his bed, pulling the blankets back to see his face. "I need to know what's wrong. Is this about Mike Shepherd? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. It's just a headache." He lied, though it wasn't entirely untrue. "They're getting worse and the pills don't help anymore." Doctors and pills couldn't fix this.

"You need to see the doctor?" She asked, combing her fingers through his hair. "The neurologist can't see you until Friday, but I can take you back to Dr. Lieberwitz?"

He shook his head. "I just want to stay home."

"Well, okay..." She kissed his cheek and stood up. Mike, the fearling, drifted lazily around her head, but she either didn't notice or couldn't see it at all. He wasn't sure how that worked. "I've got work, so you'll be alone until Sophie gets home. I haven't forgotten about that message, by the way—and I want to know why you missed the bus after school. We need to talk—soon."

Jamie bit his lip and nodded. He didn't regret making the call, even if it made things twice as complicated. He could explain the danger; that was easy. Mike's envelope was still tucked inside his school bag (which was really just the same duffel from the hospital.) The problem was his reaction to the threat. The school hadn't noticed his absence, but if someone saw him in town, they'd probably mention it to his mother, and that would get him in trouble.

The door closed, giving him a few more hours of respite. Jamie sighed. His head was fuzzy, aching from light and tiredness, but he didn't want to sleep. Sure, it felt wonderful, but Jamie was beginning to suspect it was dangerous.

_Sleep. _The voice sighed with obvious impatience. _We need to heal._

That wasn't true. The wounds on his neck and chest had faded without a mark. He wasn't sure how to explain the stains on his shirt and jacket, though, so he'd ditched them in a dumpster on the way home. He always carried a spare shirt in his bag, because honestly, he ran into this problem way too often. But now, once again, he had no coat, and that was something his mother would notice.

_Don't jump ahead. What we did yesterday—opening that gate, making our fearling, and healing our wounds—that took a lot of energy. We need to rest. _

Jamie wanted to scream, protest that it wasn't his fearling. He didn't want it, couldn't stand it, but it was his fault, his mess. He could have fought harder, done more to stop the dark thing in his head. If he had just left town, Mike wouldn't be playing vegetable in some luxury hospital while his blackened spirit floated in the air a thousand miles away. It was their fearling—_his_ fearling.

The bulbous creature made a shrill moan and floated toward the closet, which lay open and sprawling with clothes. The door bugged him almost as much as the window. It was dark inside. Dark and safe—no not safe! Not safe! Shaking his head, he looked away, but the temptation remained.

_Stop whining. He won't hurt us._

He…Somewhere in his memory a lid snapped—closets, shadows, the space under beds—nightmares blotting out the moon, crashing down on the Pennsylvanian suburb like a wall of black water. _There's more than one way to stuff out a light. _A different voice spoke from Jaime's memory, followed by the pop of ruined streetlamps.

The image evoked a peculiar feeling in his chest, a fluttering thrill that went beyond fear, gnawing at the dark corners of his heart. He closed his eyes, shivering as he felt thin fingers sliding through his hair, brushing across his skin. Something heavy pressed against his chest, weighing heavily against his ribs and crushing his lungs. He couldn't breathe. Velvet whispers tickled his ear, echoing through the haze of a half-forgotten dream. _You needn't worry. I won't let you finish growing up._

Jamie bolted upright, tossing the covers back. NO! No! No! No! He paced the room, rubbing the goose bumps on his arms as he moved through the clutter. This wasn't happening. That wasn't a memory. It was just a dream—just a nightmare. Just a…

Jamie felt his heart stall with a single, sickening thump. _The rules have changed—you've changed_. He should have known, should have asked. All those conversations by the lake, those games played in drifts of purest snow—countless opportunities lost, and they'd never even mentioned it. Pitch wasn't a Guardian. He didn't play by the same rules, and he never would, because fear didn't end with childhood. A shudder ran down Jamie's back and he sank to the floor, gasping for air.

_Calm down. _The voice rolled over in its nest of pillows. _Why are you so frightened? _

Why—_Why?!_ Another lock snapped, releasing a deluge of nightmares. The terrors rose, flashing before his eyes in an endless loop—every dream the Sandman had banished or buried: thunder in the distance, black sand blotting out the moon, shadows shifting on the wall, a black scythe punching through his friends, one by one. There were no more sweet dreams, no golden sand, no was standing on a path to nowhere, stranded at the edge of a bottomless chasm with a locked gate at his back. No way forward. No way back. He was trapped, pressed against the wall, eyes wide, mouth gaping, black shadows crawling up his throat, pushing past his lips like an insect shedding its skin. Jamie bit back a scream.

_Shh…_The dark voice pulled, and Jamie fell, tumbling down into the dark plush of his subconscious. Blinking back tears, he found himself staring up at his own reflection. No, not a reflection, but a perfect replication. It had the same upturned nose, the same bright gold eyes, the same narrow build. Jamie's doppelganger pinned him to the pillows with a flat expression that bordered on predacious. _Stop. That won't happen to us—it's not even possible._

Jamie made a feeble attempt to free himself, then gave up, limbs slack against the velvet.

"We're not going to die." The other leaned down, inches from his counterpart, soft puffs of breath tickling the boy's lips. "We're not going to end."Cool fingers trailed down Jamie's arms, guiding them. Jamie felt the thin, underdeveloped muscles of his own back and let his arms tighten, pulling the other close. The shadow returned the gesture, crushing himself against the frightened boy until the lines between them blurred. Jamie felt his breath, the steady rhythm of his pulse—their pulse. Beat by beat, his own heart slowed, keeping pace with its reflection. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

Soft lips found his, and it wasn't a kiss so much as an affirmation, a promise sealed. Jamie relaxed, reassurance pulsing through the shared heartbeat. The cushions faded, and the other began picking through the old nightmares, taming the suppressed fears, and filing their sharp edges. He didn't banish them or lock them away. He stood with Jamie, walking him through each terror, reigning in the sea of sand, bending it to his will, and blocking every swing of the scythe. One by one, he pried the terrors free, and slowly, gradually, they began to change. The light shifted. Shadows pulled into focus. Streetlamps flared, shredding the night with luminescent razors. Jamie's eyes dilated, straining against the blinding glare as he stepped back, retreating from the light, wishing it would stop—and it did.

A shadow swept across the wall, extinguishing the orbs in a burst of sparks. Darkness. Blissful dusk flooded his eyes, cooling his abused retinas. Jamie sighed. His shoulders relaxed. The sounds of battle faded, banished to distant memory.

_We belong in the dark. _The voice was back in his head, echoing in his thoughts. _We are the dark._

"No…I'm not…I'm not…" He gasped, stepping away from the shattered lights.

_You are. We are. _Murky figures wafted from the ground at Jamie's feet, rising up in black plumes to orbit his body, brushing his skin as they passed. Arms slid round his shoulders, and the other appeared, pressed against his back. "I'm not a parasite, Jamie. I'm not a monster living inside your head."Jamie shivered as lips ghosted up his neck and pressed behind his ear. "You can't banish me or lock me away. Even if you could, it wouldn't matter. Nothing would change. The lights would still burn. The night would still heal. You can't change what you are."

Jamie flushed as teeth scraped the shell of his ear. "I'm not supposed to be this way…"

"Nobody knows what they're supposed to be." The other said, and with a snap of his fingers the darkness shattered, evaporating in a haze of white. "You know that."

The memory shifted. He was sitting in the snow at the edge of Jack's lake, staring down at a pair of gloved hands. They were small and clumsy, but Jamie recognized them—or, at least, he recognized the gloves. They were still in the hall closet, waiting to be patched.

"You became Jack Frost?" Jamie felt his lips move as he turned to face his companion, but his voice sounded different, younger. Jack, of course, looked exactly the same. Snowflakes fell in his crop of white hair, clinging to the edges of his frozen sweatshirt as he held his staff loosely against his shoulder. The image felt so familiar, but a gentle haze was already forming around the details, blurring the forgotten and the lost. If he wasn't careful, he might lose Jack completely. "Like, you used to be someone else?"

The white haired youth met his eyes, and there was something cautious, almost guilty in his expression. "Sort of…" He scratched his head and looked away. "It was a really long time ago, but I…I used to be human." He paused, picking at the handle of his staff. "We all were."

"You were?" Jamie asked. "Even Bunny?"

"Maybe." Jack shrugged. "I've never asked."

"Does that…Does that mean I could be a Guardian? You know, when I grow up?" With that forbidden question, the memory clicked. It was mid-January, almost a year after he first met the Guardians. Jack had stayed much longer than usual, lingering in Burgess until the whole town was buried in snow. Jamie didn't mind. He liked Jack, and having the attention of someone so important made him feel important, too. It was almost worth all the hours of shoveling. The Guardian must have had other towns to visit, other kids to play with, but he stayed in the small Pennsylvanian suburb with his first believers. Jamie hadn't questioned it at the time, but now he thought he could understand. Jack needed to keep them close, to make sure they could still see him. Despite everything he'd said about clouds and the moon, he was still afraid of being forgotten.

"What?" The Guardian turned and Jamie caught a hint of fear in his blue eyes. "Why would you want that?"

A ghost of pain plucked at his heart, and Jamie felt a prickling heat around his eyes. He looked away, fidgeting with a loose thread in his glove until he could cope with the overwhelming sense of rejection. At last, he opened his mouth, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I just want to help…" Jamie's eyes fixed resolutely on his twisting thumbs. "I know the other Guardians are busy, and I'm really glad you're here, but I didn't even hear North's sleigh this year, and I waited up all night. I haven't seen any of them since last Easter."

Jack exhaled and gave his friend an understanding half-smile. "I get it, Jamie, believe me, I do. It took me 300 years to get their attention, and I still don't see them that often." He said, and placed a hand on Jamie's shoulder, giving if a timid pat. "That's just how they are. Don't take it personally. You still got presents, right?"

"Yeah…" Jamie leaned against the Guardian, wrapping small arms around his chest and pulling him into a hug. Jack's body stiffened for a moment, before relaxing into the affection. Physical contact was always a little strange with Jack, but he never pushed the children away. Jamie liked being this close. He could hear the soft thumping of the older boy's heart and smell the crisp chill of frost as it crackled against his cheek, promising mysteries greater than any monster. Jamie tightened his grip on Jack's sweatshirt as he spoke into the dampening cloth, "I still believe in them, and I always will, but after everything that happened last year, I feel kind of…left out."

"Jamie…" Jack let his arms close lightly around the boy, cold fingers smoothing over his hair. "Look, I'll talk to North, if it means that much to you, but you've got your friends and your family—you've even got me. Isn't that enough?"

Jamie hesitated. How could he explain without sounding selfish? He just wanted to be a part of things, to feel needed and useful, and above all, important. Jamie never got awards for school or sports, but the knowledge that these legendary beings needed him, that their very existence hinged on the strength of his belief—that was better than any medal or trophy. It wouldn't last—he knew that. But if he could join them, it wouldn't be so bad. "That's not—it's not about that. I'm not ungrateful, I just..." He broke the hug and pushed away, wiping his cheek with the back of his glove. "I know you're going to leave."

Jack flinched, hands falling back to his sides. "I'll come back. I always do."

"I know." The younger boy crossed his arms and exhaled, hunching his shoulders as white breath billowing up around his head.

"No. You don't." Jack fixed his eyes on the younger boy, his expression conflicted and uncharacteristically grim. "You don't know how much I want to stay, how many times I've tried. This—" He gestured to the accumulating snow, "follows me everywhere and I can't always keep it under control. I can hurt people, Jamie. I don't mean to, but it happens if I stay too long or visit too early." Jack paused for a moment, and Jamie could feel it now—the fear, which was strange, because he couldn't have felt it at the time.

There were shadows lurking in his friend's heart, buried deep in his core. They spoke in inky pictures, twisting lines of ice and death. A boy—lost and buried in a blizzard. A woman—broken and splayed at the bottom of an icy stairwell. Jamie watched, unable to move or look away. He was seeing Jack all over again, but this time, there was no joyful revelation or burgeoning friendship, only guilt and betrayal. Jack wouldn't want him to see these images. It was wrong, so wrong, and yet Jamie couldn't help but wonder how many people his friend had hurt. In some ways, it actually made him feel better—knowing Jack wasn't perfect. It gave Jamie a basis for comparison, and made his own crime seem slightly less appalling. After all, he hadn't technically killed anyone.

"Don't ever ask to be this way…" The Guardian said, "You have so much already—family and friends, people who would put their lives on the line to protect you, and…" Jack gave him a sidelong glance, blue eyes swimming with pain and loss. "…you don't know how much I envy that. The Man in the Moon pulled me from this lake, but my life was over. I never saw my sister again—I didn't even remember she existed until last year, and I still can't remember her name. I don't even know if she made it home after I fell in the lake, and—" Jack bit his lip, shoulders shaking with suppressed tears.

"Jack…" Jamie's body moved forward to console the frost spirit, but he was caught, transfixed by the horrible scene looping in Jack's heart. Again and again, he watched the ice crack, the nameless girl screaming for her brother as he fell. Ice clawed at his lungs, ripping the air from his body, and suddenly it was Sophie screaming, reaching forward as the darkness swallowed him whole. He screamed, jolting free of the memory and thrashing in the darkness.

He fought the other's grip, desperate to escape the shadows moving through his mind, but he couldn't shut them out. He watched the darkness consume his childhood home, staining the streets of Burgess until everyone he'd ever known was gone or forever changed. He froze, tears rolling down his cheeks as the truth ground home. It was over. He could scream, and fight, and dig his heels in, but no matter what he did, he was going to lose, and there was more at stake than he'd ever realized.

He'd been prepared to give up his house, his friends, and his memories, but never his family—at least, not while he was alive. Death, he could cope with, because death was the end. He wouldn't miss his family or friends. He wouldn't miss anything, because he'd be gone. But this…this wasn't an end. As far as he could tell, it never would be. The future was an open void, and he was already falling. There was nothing he could do—nowhere he could go. He was alone.

Wrapping his arms around the other's neck, Jamie buried his face and cried—really cried. It felt like an invisible knife had ripped through his heart, his body shaking with disjointed sobs. He was drowning, choking on pain and misery. All the injustice, the fear and uncertainty—all the guilt and loneliness he'd felt over the past week bled from his soul in a river of molten anguish. He cried for his loss and the pain it would cause. He cried for his mother and his sister. He cried for Jack, who had tried so hard, yet failed to save him. He cried until his lungs ached, and his eyes were red, but no amount of tears could fill the hole in his heart.

The other let him cry, stroking his hair between sobs. The pain wasn't pleasant, but the worst of it was over now, and he could already feel the soothing weight of sleep pressing them into the void. Leaving his double wrapped in a dark cocoon, the other forced himself back into consciousness, blinking up at their bedroom ceiling. Pushing himself up with a frustrated sigh, he cringed at the persistent line of light, and reached up to touch the fading lump on the back of his head. Split consciousness had many conveniences, but this certainly wasn't one of them. Jamie didn't regret their conversation—quite the contrary. With a little guidance, his alter ego proved to be surprisingly reasonable. But forcing a shared subconscious without proper planning had left their physical body in a comatose stupor. Without a driver, the fragile vessel had crumpled, knocking its head on an incidental piece of furniture. It was an irritating weakness and he mentally moved that problem up his internal list of priorities. Honestly…

"Stop—Stop it. I'm fine." He snapped, swatting the fearling away as it circled and moaned. Gritting his teeth against the growing pain between his eyes, Jamie pushed himself up and stumbled toward the safety of the closet. They needed rest—rest and…

He stopped just short of the closet door, gold eyes flashing as they focused on the mirror. Jamie reached out, fingertips prickling as they brushed the thick layer of frost. The bedroom door creaked inward and he swore, covering his eyes as a chill breeze stirred the curtains, breaking the darkness with a flash of blinding light. Mike gave a shrill squeal and zipped into the closet, hiding in the shadow of an over-sized suit jacket.

"Jack?" Jamie called, sweeping the renewed darkness with recovering eyes, but there wasn't a trace of his former friend—not yet, anyway. He had time, but it was burning fast—a day or two at most. Even as the though crossed his mind, a muted shout thrummed against Jamie's eardrums, forcing him to reevaluate that estimate. It was hazy and barely recognizable, but however faintly, he _could_ hear it. If he concentrated, he could almost work out the syllables of his name. "Save your breath, Jack. I can't hear you. I can't see you." He said, with a touch of bitterness. As he spoke, curved lines appeared on the mirror's surface, tracing the familiar form of a frosted rabbit. Jamie rolled his eyes and wiped his palm across the glass, obliterating the drawing. "I know you're there, stupid. I said your name twice."

There was a pause and the glass began to frost again. This time clumsy writing began to appear.

_Jamie, what happened to you? There's someth—_

Jamie clicked his tongue, rubbing out the words with his sleeve. Preternatural indifference was losing ground to human emotion, and it wasn't an enjoyable experience, particularly when coupled with a splitting headache and a desperate need for sleep. "Like you have any right to ask that. You got what you wanted, right? I grew up. I don't need you anymore."

_No! Something's wrong! You're not supposed to—_

Jamie's fist collided with the mirror and it shattered, ink-flecked fragments shimmering as they fell to the carpet. The air wavered, and he glimpsed a familiar flash of pale skin—Jack's face, stricken with shock and pain. "Don't. Don't tell me how things are supposed to be. You don't know—you never did." The words cut through the silence, cold and sharp as broken glass. "I've been broken since the night I first saw you, but there's nothing either of us can do about it now."

He let his arm drop, fist loosening as drops of black rolled down his fingers. The garbled voice seemed to sob as it said his name again…and again. Useless. Completely useless. Jamie took a deep breath and shuffled toward the closet, ignoring the ghostly chill on his arm. He turned at the edge of the shadows, staring down at the line of frost creeping up his pajama sleeve. Eyes glinting gold, he followed the shimmering space up to where he knew Jack's face must be. It was time to go. This was progressing much faster than anticipated, and he was too tired to suppress the noxious tendrils of emotion leaking from his subconscious. If he kept talking, he was going to do something stupid—well, something _else_ stupid. Better to twist the knife now and make an exit while he still had the upper hand.

"Besides," The darkness opened at his back, yawning like a jagged maw as he stepped backwards, "it's not like you had any other choice…"

The room began to fade, shadows closing around him, and in that last moment, he realized he'd never see it again. Jack knew. The Guardians knew. If he came back, they'd find him, and he wasn't strong enough to face them—not alone, not yet. The thought shouldn't have hurt, but it did. It cut deep. His home, his family—gone forever. He forced a smile, intending to say something cruel and witty, but his eyes were burning and he could barely breathe and Jack was standing there in his bedroom with wide blue eyes and that same horrified expression. Jamie laughed, but it came out choked and shallow.

"Tell Sophie I love her and…I'm sorry."

"JAMIE—JAMIE, NO!"

Jamie saw the Guardian reach out, but the next second he was gone…

It was all gone…

* * *

_That's all I have posted on Ao3 so far, but I'm a good way into chapter 5. I have quite a few other commitments. If you know me on tumblr, you'll know I work on various translation projects, not to mention I have a full time job. _

_This is such a small ship, that I'm mostly writing for my own entertainment, but if you've enjoyed the story so far, and would like to see more, nothing motivates me more than constructive reviews. _


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